Gone
by badgerstripe
Summary: Molly Hooper. The one who counted, who mattered the most. And he had failed her.


Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to throw things across the room in his rage, leaving dents in the wall. He wanted to shove everything off the tabletops, and then break the window and yell at the top of his lungs. So he did. Well, in his Mind Palace anyway. It was utterly gratifying, in a way. Then she appeared in front of him with the same worried and kind eyes as always. She'd be a comfort if it wasn't for a certain reminder that floated around her; he had failed Molly Hooper. The one who counted, who mattered the most, and he had failed her.

He threw himself on the floor of the strewn room and closed his eyes, trying with all his might to delete the sentiment. It didn't work, and even he knew that it never would. Because he didn't want her to go, the memory of Molly Hooper would not leave. Sherlock wanted to curse some sort of deity for it. He wanted to blame someone, anyone, for taking her away so soon, before he could build up his courage to tell her what he never got the chance to. His heart only pointed fingers at him.

He opened his eyes to see her lying next to him on the floor of the Mind Palace, big dark eyes staring at him wistfully. Sherlock tangled his fingers in her hair, remembering how soft it looked, distracting himself with her.

"I won't leave you all alone. No matter what happens, Sherlock, you can always have me. Always.", she whispered, a cheery smile forming on her features. Her hair was fairy-like, wisps framing her face delicately. A warm sunlight filled the room, lighting her face up, her cheeks as rosy as always. It was as if she was light, a hopeful glow surrounding her, trying desperately to lift his spirits.

But the sweater. She was wearing the sweater. The one Sherlock had seen when he got to the crime scene, soaked in blood from the wound. Now it was clean, but a familiar stain began to form around her chest. The warm glow disappeared, and her mouth began to spit blood. "No" he said, getting on his knees, "No, it isn't fair. You can't take her, no!" When her eyes finally faded dully and the light and warmth had left her eyes, Sherlock dropped her in resignation. "Why", he cried, "I could save everyone else, but why- why couldn't I save you, Molly?"

"I'm guessing that was rhetorical.", Sherlock whirled around, and snarled at the sight before him. Moriarty stood behind him, smiling.

"Why are you even here?!", Sherlock shouted, "Leave this room!" Mind Palace Jim chuckled, and glanced over at Molly, looking down at her with a sorrowful smile, and looked back up him again.

"This is _your _Mind Palace, smarty-pants. Why should I know?"

"I don't know. I-" he faltered. His Mind Palace was somewhere where he could organize his thoughts, and pull out information if he needed it. Suddenly, it wasn't the orderly controlled place he had wanted it to be. "What is going on?" He turned around to face Molly's body, but it was no longer there, and there was no trace of it ever being there.

"You know it's not like you could've saved her. I never actually planned to kill John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. If I did, they would've been dead already. If they had that would've been your fault, since I blatantly gave you a choice. Jump, or they die. Molly, however, is a different matter."

"But WHY?!" Sherlock said, his voice filled with both grief and frustration. He ruffled his hair anxiously. "Why did it have to be... her?"

"Dunno. Like I said, I'm not the one with the answers here. This is your perspective of me.", Jim sat down on a chair, frowning. "Such a shame that she wasn't just on the side of the angels, like you Sherly. Oh, no. Molly Hooper was your guardian angel, wasn't she?"

"Is that why?", Sherlock growled, "Couldn't stand that Sherlock Holmes pathologist helped him trick you? You always were so full of pride." Moriarty shook his head lightly, giving a small chuckle. "You're laughing, why are you laughing?"

"Oh, Sherl. You really are letting your emotions get to you." Jim giggled. "Hurry up and solve the puzzle silly! Grieving, won't get you any closer to the solution."

"What if I don't want to play your game anymore?", he blustered, " Answer me this: What if I just give up and quit?!" Jim clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Dear me, you really are stubborn." Jim snarled. "We both know what will happen. Someone else is going to die. Now I really doubt Molly would've been very happy knowing you'd give up so easily. Besides: You're boring enough to care, Sherlock Holmes. Play the game." Sherlock blinked.

Suddenly, he was at the crime scene. His mind was messily making deductions on instinct, but if he concentrated, he could organize them. He could end this. Mycroft stood beside him, "If you're going to find Molly Hooper's killer, than you should not let the sentiment cloud your mind. Let it go, numb yourself, and save it for later, Sherlock. Now, you must begin to think, and act quickly!" With a deep breath, Sherlock Holmes began his investigation, muttering to himself. Just another client, just another case. Yet despite the cold exterior he had managed to achieve, the hole in his heart remained, reminding him painfully, that he could not save her. Molly was gone.


End file.
